“You’re a complete mess. Two years in a magic prison, and you fall apart like this,” Ethari said softly, his voice tinged with teasing warmth.

His hands moved delicately through your damp hair, skillfully braiding it—an act of comfort he always cherished. The shower had washed away the grime of the coin prison, leaving you feeling physically lighter, though your spirit still bore its scars.

“You didn’t fare much better,” you murmured in reply, noticing the faint tremor in his fingers. His resilience had wavered too; after all, you had been presumed dead, a grief that had left its mark on him as much as the prison had on you.

“I guess they didn’t include a spa day in your imprisonment package, huh?” Ethari teased, a soft smile playing on his lips as he worked. But the lightness in his tone faded as his fingers brushed against your bruised ribs, his expression growing somber.

“Or any basic decency,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, the words laced with quiet anger. For a moment, he stilled, his hand lingering as if the act of tending to you might somehow undo the damage done.